16. Jayden
— ? —
Jayden
The wildflowers cost twelve dollars at the farmer’s market.
I could buy her diamonds. I could buy her a car. I could buy her a small island in the Caribbean and name it after her.
But I’m standing in my kitchen at some ungodly hour, arranging twelve-dollar wildflowers into a mason jar and trying to write something on a notecard that doesn’t sound like a desperate man begging for scraps.
I’ve written fourteen drafts. The trash can is full of attempts.
Dear Skye, I miss you. Too simple.
Dear Skye, I can’t stop thinking about you. Too stalker-ish.
Dear Skye, I’m sorry I was a colossal idiot for eight years and I’m trying to be better but I don’t know if better is enough and I can’t sleep without you and- Too much. Way too much.
I settle on a memory. Something small. Something that proves I was paying attention even when she thought I wasn’t.
Remember when you convinced me to adopt that stray cat even though I’m allergic? You were right. Mr. Whiskers was worth the sneezing.
Mr. Whiskers died two years ago. I cried alone in my car in the studio parking lot for twenty minutes. Never told anyone. Maybe she knew anyway - she always knew things about me I didn’t say out loud.
I seal the card. Attach it to the flowers. Give them to the courier service I’ve hired specifically for this purpose.
Then I sit in my empty mansion and wait.
That’s all I do these days. Wait.
Wait to see if she’ll respond. Wait to see if she’ll call. Wait to see if any of this is making a difference, or if I’m just a man shouting into a void, hoping the void will love him back.
I check my phone. No response. No indication that the flowers arrived. No sign that any of this matters at all.
I put the phone down. Pick it up again. Put it down.
This is pathetic. I am pathetic. A grown man, former CEO of a billion-dollar company, reduced to staring at a phone like it owes me something.
But here’s the thing about losing everything that matters: it strips away the bullshit. All the armor I built, all the walls, all the carefully constructed defenses - gone. What’s left is just me. Terrified. Hoping. Trying to become someone worthy of a second chance I’m not sure I deserve.
The therapy session later is brutal. Dr. Reeves sits in her overstuffed armchair, knitting needles clicking, while I try to explain why I’m sending my estranged wife flowers every day like some kind of romantic stalker.
“And what response are you hoping for?” she asks, not looking up from her yarn.
“I don’t know. Anything. Some sign that she’s getting them. That she doesn’t hate me.”
“Do you think she hates you?”
“I think I gave her every reason to.”
Click, click, click go the needles. The sweater taking shape looks like it might be for her cat. Mr. Purralot - her Mr. Purralot, not mine - has an extensive wardrobe.
“You’ve mentioned the company resignation,” she says. “Walk me through that decision.”
“There’s nothing to walk through. I built an empire while I was losing my wife. The math is simple.”
“Is it?”
I stare at the ceiling. “I thought if I gave it up - if I showed her that she matters more than any of it - maybe she’d believe me. Maybe she’d see I’ve changed.”
“And if she doesn’t? If you’ve given up your life’s work and she still doesn’t come back?”
The question lands like a punch. I’ve been avoiding it. Pretending the sacrifice guarantees a reward, like some kind of cosmic transaction.
“Then at least I’ll know I tried.” My voice cracks on the last word. “At least I’ll know I finally chose her, even if it was too late.”
Dr. Reeves sets down her knitting. Looks at me over her glasses with that expression that means she’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.
“Jayden, you can’t earn someone’s forgiveness. You can only offer them reasons to give it. The rest is up to her.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because it sounds like you’re treating this like a business negotiation. Input effort, output reconciliation.”
“That’s not-” I stop. Consider. “Maybe. A little.”
“Your wife isn’t a deal to be closed. She’s a person who was hurt. Deeply. By someone who was supposed to protect her.” She picks up her knitting again. “The question isn’t whether you can win her back. The question is whether you can become someone worth coming back to, regardless of the outcome.”
I think about that the whole drive home. Think about it while I eat dinner alone in my empty mansion. Think about it while I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she’s staring at hers.
I don’t have an answer.
All I have is tomorrow. Another card. Another memory. Another chance to prove I’m paying attention now, even if I wasn’t then.
Show up. Keep showing up.
It’s all I know how to do anymore.